Transylvanian Wonderland

Je t’aime, James

April 12, 2011 at 11:54 PM (Fiction, Rambles)

12th April; Entry no. 10

An unfinished chapter

A single rose petal falls, stopping her in mid-step. She stares down at it in awe, wondering how it came about. She bends to pick it up, a perfectly smooth blood red petal, tickling her nostrils as she inhales the sweet scent.

She looks up to continue her walk, but shivers run down her spine. It grips her heart giving her goosebumps, tingling her through. She stares into a pair of piercing brown eyes, so familiar yet not. She reckons she knows the rhythm of his heart, yet somehow he feels estranged.

She knows him from somewhere,  a lost love kept close at heart. He is walking towards her; she tries to run but is rooted to the ground. As he approaches, she feels an instant stab of pain knifing through her chest. Every step he takes, brings back memories of the past too painful to relive.

He kept his gaze with every steady pace, trying to send an encrypted message only she can decipher. Memories of her lost love came to mind, bringing a tear trickling down her facial line. She desires his tender caress, his loving hug, his gentle embrace. His echoey voice whispering never ending words of love, sealing it with a million butterfly kisses.

The past has finally caught up, an unfinished love story which ended abrupt. How he broke her heart is no longer a conundrum, one word is all he needs to take away her glum.

After years of anticipating, he is right here reaching. Reaching and reaching to fill the void with many words left unsaid. Finally he stops, just a feet away from her. Just close enough… but not too close for comfort. He hands her a single red rose, a note tied with a string to the stem.

She takes it with shaky hands, slowly moving her eyes towards the note. She reads it, a smile forming on her face, a tear streaking down her cheek. She rereads the one word which is sending her heart aflutter. Je t’aime… Je t’aime… Je t’aime…

With a sharp intake of breath she is jolted awake, sitting up right on her bed with warmth coursing through her veins. It was just a dream, she thought to herself. She laid back down disappointed and heartbroken. She turned onto her side, her heart starts hammering again. For there on the pillow lies a single red rose, a note tied to the stem. 

She reaches for it, hands trembling, stomach churning. She reads the note and this time her heart soars free. First note with one word, second note reads two; 

Je t’aime, James.

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Dainty Dimunitive Darielle

April 5, 2011 at 11:50 PM (Fiction, Rambles)

5th April – Entry no.4

A little something something.

What’s to like and what’s not to like? Thought Darielle to herself as she recalled how the two spoilt affluent kids ate. Her hollow tummy peevish in protest as the aroma of hot food drifted into her nostrils, making her sway on the wobbly stool she was perched on. She hushed them to no avail as they carried on picking and criticizing everything they had on their dinner plate before them. Dressed in old drab clothes and smelling like stale fish from the sweat most of the time, Darielle should not be denied the royalties of being a pretty girl beneath the façade, if she were given a chance to do herself up.

She led a bitter life; never having the chance to wear new pretty clothes, always admiring other carefree pretty girls her age from afar. But who could blame her for being a bitter girl? The innocence of childhood that she was entitled to was being robbed away by the family’s poor financial standing, allowing her only a sacred imagination which is wild at heart and mind.

The world around her was dark and silent. She is only eleven to say the least, but as mature as any girl of sixteen would be. The youngest of the family of seven, not forgetting her two sets of grandparents and a dog, they were as broke as a family of thirteen plus a dog could be.

Darielle, come quick and bring this food up to your grandmamma. Shouted her mama through the pitter patter of rain from the wooden door of their very tiny terrace house. At once, all around them, their nosy neighbours poked their heads out to look over the fragile wired made fencing which were the only thing separating the houses from one another.

I’m coming mama! Was all a nearly drenched Darielle could articulate as she slipped and stumbled upon an uneven path leading to her home.

Go on my little Darielle, up to your grandmamma’s room. Said mama as soon as Darielle intercepted the tray of food. Mama then carried on into the kitchen, walking slowly, slightly limping from the ache of raising seven kids. The stairs leading up to her grandmamma’s room was steep. Steep and old as it creaked in protest with every step Darielle took. It was a long stairway indeed…

A dog was following Darielle up her flight of stairs, panting loudly from the heat, as it’s long nails clanked rhythmically to the movement of its paw.

Shoo, go away silly dog. Grandmamma don’t like you in her room. Shoo, go away. Said Darielle as the silly dog whined in protest, stopping when Darielle stopped and walking again when Darielle walked.

The silly doggy was a stray. A stray that followed Darielle home after she fed him crumbs of her bread. That night she was yelled at by her mama for bringing home a stray and then sent to bed on an empty stomach after discerning that Darielle gave away the last of her bread to the stray. Bread that could have fed Darielle’s own empty tummy. That night, Darielle wept herself to sleep in stillness, repressing words of protest and fearing the rattan cane which would soon swoosh down upon her soft pale flesh. She prayed. Prayed and wished upon the star up in the sky. The star which was listening as she spoke her inner most fears and desires. Though the star did not respond but Darielle knew that the star was listening.

Darielle’s hands were rough and wrinkly for an eleven year old, her nails chipped, her hand me down clothes too big for her; eating her up like an oversized curtain. She was lanky, taller than any of her sisters were when they were her age, thinner too than any of them ever were. She had dry messy black hair which was cut to the shoulder and huge curious eyes awaiting to go out there and explore the world…

Darielle was shaken out of her reverie when the dog whined just as they landed on the top of the landing. She put her hands onto the doorknob. Wanting to turn but hesitant when the dog wouldn’t stop whining. Her heartbeat quickened but she has no idea why. Taking a deep breath she pushed the door open.

Grandmamma was lying on her rusty bed looking up into the dark nothingness. The low ceiling fan was circling slowly above her emitting a little cool air with every complete turn it swiveled.

Grandmamma, said Darielle as she entered the quiet room with the tray of food. Grandmamma was weak, she could no longer stand or sit long enough to eat three spoonfuls of rice. On the tray was a cup and a straw. A cup full of mashed up watery porridge that would slide easily through the straw, into her mouth and down to her stomach. There was no effort required apart from the minimal act of sucking the straw. Recently though, Darielle noticed that even the tiny effort of sucking a straw was making grandmamma gasp for breath. Something which worried Darielle.

Grandmamma, she said again but there was no answer. Darielle walked up to the side of the bed. She gasped as she saw grandmamma with purple hands and black nails. She lifted her hands only to hear grandmamma let out a little whimper.

MAMA! Screamed Darielle. Mama came rushing up the stairs and into the room.

What is it my little Darielle? Asked mama holding a basket of laundry in her hands.

It’s grandmamma. Look at her hands. Said Darielle, pale in the face. Mama rushed to grandmamma, let out a gasp and then went to unfold the end of the blanket to reveal purple pale legs and black toe nails. Mama screamed for father and her other kids. Everyone came bounding up the fragile aching stairs as it strained against the weight of seven people. Papa had tears in his eyes. Mama was screaming for grandmamma. The others just stood by and watched, touching any visible part of grandmamma, letting her know they were there by her side. Darielle was at a loss. She looked around for some answers and directions of what to do and how to act but everyone seemed lost in their own world.

Seeping into her own world too, Darielle walked over to the window in grandmamma’s room. She looked out to the night sky and saw her star twinkling brightly. She said a silent prayer for grandmamma for that was all she knew how to do at that moment in time. She needed the star to grant her prayer. She wanted the star to not make grandmamma moan in pain any longer. She wanted grandmamma to feel peace and be her grandmamma again. Darielle turned over and looked at grandmamma and realized that her grandmamma could not possibly be the grandmamma she once knew. She turned once again back to the star, just in time to see it twinkle. Just then it dawned upon her that she has to learn to let go. That is what death was all about; to let go so that the dead could live on in our hearts and memories forever, taking them with us everywhere we went.

Grandmamma, it is okay. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be scared. My star will take care of you now. I’ve said a prayer for you and I will look for you in my star every night to keep you company. I love you grandmamma, said Darielle who wasn’t aware of her own sobbing. As the hot tears pelted down upon Darielle’s soft cheek, grandmamma let out a groan and then went limp. Grandmamma was no longer breathing. Grandmamma was no longer suffering. Grandmamma finished her time here on earth and was moving on. Darielle finally knew what death meant…

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Candlewick Curator

April 4, 2011 at 8:11 PM (Fiction, Rambles)

4th April – Entry No.3

A story

A gust of wind howls through the street, sending shivers all around as houses creak in fear of the wind. It is a night like any other. A night of the ordinary for all villagers. All except for one boy. A clueless boy who is now walking up the cobbled path, cloaked in torn brown rags, holding nothing but  a white candle stuck onto a rusty old candelabra.

His face is glum, pale but dirty from a hard day’s work. His body small and frail, but his heart big and warm. Abandoned at birth, Caelan is never mad at how his life turned out. He is kind and generous, always giving but never expecting.

Tonight… he thinks, tonight is strange.

His candlelight flickering away amongst the wind. Flickering strong and bright, acting as his beacon down this mysterious cobbled path. What is it about this path in which he trudges through everyday, he wonders. Nothing is out of place. Everything seems like it did before. But somehow, it’s different. He is different.

A chill runs down his spine as all of a sudden, out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of a shadow. A shadow of a disfigured person in a cloak and hat. And just like that the shadow is gone. He rubs his eyes and shines as much light as he possibly can in the direction of the shadow which glides towards a tiny dark lane. Is his eyes playing tricks on him?

Just as that thought slips his mind, he sees a shadow of a hand appearing on the wall. The shadowy hand beckoning him to follow. He closes his eyes, opens it again and there it is… the hand still beckoning him forward. Chills run down his spine as he feels the hot flame of his candlelight cold against his cheeks.

Curiously, Caelan takes a few steps forward. The shadow now moving with every step he takes. His heart pounding wildly in his chest. He is now halfway through the narrow alleyway when suddenly he feels his whole body go numb. He can’t move. He is stuck. His head protrudes out of an invisible sphere whilst his body from his neck down is still stuck in reality. He moves his head, but all he can see are images swirling around in a deep hole, like in a wising well.

“Hey!” he calls out to the shadowy figure which lured him forward. The shadowy figure, who is walking in this strange parallel universe stops in his tracks and turns to look straight into Caelan’s big brown eyes. Fear seeps through Caelan’s veins. The shadowy figure strides towards Caelan. His cane tapping silently against the invisible floor, in pace with his footing. As he approaches, his face becomes clearer. The fear which was running through Caelan’s veins stops and grips at his heart. The face, somehow familiar but a stranger. For a moment, Caelan thinks that the shadow is him. It is a joke. A prank.  A striking resemblance of his twin staring back at him. But somehow, this twin’s face is older with age and kinder in the eyes.

The man waves his cane, drawing invisible lines. His mouth moving in time to the strokes. Then a whoosh of air escapes Caelan as he jolts forward into the sphere. He is now standing but on nothing. He is now touching and feeling but at nothing. He is now talking but his voice comes out as nothing.

“Hello Caelan. At last we meet. My apologies for having you stuck. Never had many visitors,” the man speaks, but his mouth isn’t moving. How does he know my name? Caelan wonders aloud in his mind.

“I’ve been watching you boy. Ever since your very birth,” answers the man without skipping a beat. Caelan frowns and takes a few vary steps backwards, not bothering to speak as he knows he can’t. The man comes forward, his voice ringing loud and clear once more. “Don’t be afraid my child, for here we communicate with thoughts and not with speech. Come. Let me show you your destiny.”

“What destiny?” Yells Caelan in his mind. “Why have you been watching me?”

The man didn’t reply but instead moves forward and disappears. “Just follow your heart and it will lead you to me.” Echos the mans voice against the invisible walls, startling Caelan.

Confused, Caelan closes his eyes and walks blindly, somehow knowing what to do despite being in the unknown. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” Caelan opens his eyes and squints against the brightness in the room. The man’s physic is visibly clearer now. He is holding Caelan’s old rusty candelabra in one hand and cane in another. Caelan looks around the room, soaking up the sight as he drinks in the endless number of candles lining up against the invisible walls. Rows and rows of candles, some even resembling stalactites and stalagmites in caves.

“Who are you? What is this place? Where did you get my candle?”

“I thought you would never ask. I, am the candlewick curator,” answers the man with ease, ignoring the other questions all together.

“What’s a candlewick curator?” asks Caelan, bravely walking amongst candles. Some shining brightly, some dim and some unlighted.

“The candles you see here my boy are very special indeed. One drop of candlewick on anyone will magically grant them one wish.”

“So what is it exactly you do? Grant river deep wishes?” asks Caelan with a tiny smirk in his voice, unintentionally mocking.

“Well, a candlewick curator has a job to be the guardian of all candles around the world. All these candles are specially grown for every individual around the world.”

“Grown? How does that work exactly?”

“It simply grows my boy. At birth, a candle manifest on these walls and it grows. The bigger the heart the faster and taller it grows. The more one gives to the world only then will the candle burn on it’s own, telling me that it is time to grant them one wish. It’s pretty simple really. When one is asleep I simply drip a wick of candlewick on their chest and their deepest desires come true. All they will remember when they wake up will be nothing except for a token of remembrance left by the candlewick on their chest.”

Caelan listens, all the while awaiting his friend to jump out in surprise, telling him that it is all a joke. However much he wants to believe that it is merely a joke, deep in his heart he knows its real. He feels at home. Like this is the one thing he has been waiting for since birth. BIRTH “Why have you been looking over me since birth? Why did you bring me here?” asks Caelan, feeling goosebumps emerging on his skin.

“It is your destiny my boy. At the age of 18 this destiny as a Candlewick Curator is rightfully yours and I am to teach you the learnings you would need to carry out your destiny.”

“Why me? I didn’t ask for this. Why did you choose me?”

“I didn’t choose you my boy. It chose you. Candlewick Curator’s aren’t just chosen or made. It is passed down from generation to generation. This candle belongs to you. Ever wondered why it never finishes or puts out itself? It grows with you. With your heart. And it burns a path for you to find me again when the time is right. It listens to your heart. And all along you wanted to know your family, and now you do. A curse that Candlewick Curators have to live with. They can’t grant themselves a wish.” Caelan listens. His breath coming in sharp shallow breaths. His heart throbs in pain. He knows who the shadowy figure is now. He knows whats going to happen next. He wants to close his ears and yell but he is too late as once again the shadowy figure beats him to it.

“Welcome home my long lost son. Welcome home.” With that, Caelan grows limp and sinks down onto the invisible floor. He crouches there, hugging his knees to his chest. His father moves over slowly, only to put a protective arm around his son. His son, which he wanted to hold all these years. His son, which is now crying silently in his arms.

A tear runs down his cheeks but he smiles as he finally got his wish.

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Abysmal Abyss

April 1, 2011 at 10:08 PM (Fiction, Rambles)

1st April – entry number one

An anecdote;

I often wonder if all that I see before me is just an illusion of sorts. Like I’ve been put behind a 3D veiled window and images of my everyday life embodies a strip of film rolling round and round in a huge projectile.

Every day I would peer through this peculiar window, getting excited and bored as the images switch rhythmically in tune to the music of my life, as I await my dreamer to change the roll of film. You see, I’ve been having strange notions that somehow my life is nothing but a fiction of someone’s subliminal. All part of his/her imagination as I flit and float on command; like a puppet on a string.  When I sleep at night, my dreamer awakes and explores new places for me to visit. When my dreamer sleeps, I would be resurrected and summoned to star in the dream…

Outside the veiled window, I see people.

A vast array of people with a profound uniqueness that is indescribably beautiful but also flawed. Beneath their beautiful façade of cheery smiles and spontaneous laughter, lies a layer of emotional baggage. Peering closer into the depths by breaking through personal boundaries I see sadness lurking in the corner, lots of regret, mixed signals of anger and hatred, a little failure here and there but the one that triumph’s them all; heartache.

I pull back and feel an instant pang of sadness and pity. All those empathetic souls moving about their everyday lives which they carelessly label as reality, while in veracity trapped inside their very own emotional fortress; blind to all the beauty and love surrounding them. I cannot bear to look any further. No one cares. No one stops to look, comfort or help. No one’s got time anymore for all the little things in life. Everyone’s shutting everyone out.

What happened to ignorance? What happened to the little things that make you smile? I shout and bang my hands angrily on the window, but to no avail.

They can’t hear me.

Nobody can.

I turn and crouch down on the floor, hugging my knees tight to my chest as I start to feel trickles of warm tears glide down my cheeks. Rocking back and forth on the cold floor, I make up my mind never to let darkness in. Hurts too much. I’m trapping myself in behind this veiled window. Trapping myself in, bringing with me only a pen and paper; nothing more, nothing less…

Time is a strange thing behind this veiled window. It doesn’t always tick in time to heartbeats nor does it tick at all sometimes. It freezes, like a pendulum stuck in midair. Or like sand in sandglasses put to rest. I can’t really tell time in here for sometimes hours may only be minutes in reality.

But it’s dark outside now.

I know so because I can feel myself getting weaker, as my eyelids start to droop in heaviness. It’s time for me to sleep now as I can feel my dreamer anxious to rise in the other world.

I shall write my last sentence, put away my pen and paper and keep it safe for when tomorrow comes…

(A short excerpt from a short story I’ve written. Enjoy and do leave comments on it!)

With that I shall leave, for we will stumble upon one another with feverish haste again.

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